Wires
by Sherlyerlyerlock
Summary: Sherlock and John have a rather heated argument on sherlock's behaviour resulting in John leaving Baker Street and going and living with Harry. How well will they be able to cope without each other? TRIGGER WARNING FOR THE END ( I wrote this fic ages ago but was recently requested to upload it on here. It was the first fic I've ever written so please be nice. )


"Oh for god sakes, John!" Sherlock shouted at John from the kitchen table, "Caring won't help save them!"

"I'm not just talking about 'them', Sherlock! I'm talking about everybody! You just don't care!" John retorted, standing from his chair and making his way towards Sherlock.

"I don't care because I don't need to! Caring isn't an advantage." Sherlock a stomach tensed as he quoted his brothers words and he returned his eyes to his microscope.

"It's bloody human nature, Sherlock!" John wasn't sure how the argument had started anymore but he had things he needed to say about Sherlock's lack of compassion and now was probably the best time to say them.

"Well what's that got to do with anything?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and stared straight into John's.

"What's that got to do with anything." John laughed under his breath as he swung his head back and began to turn his back on him. "You're a machine! You don't realise it now but it will be your biggest downfall Sherlock! And you know what? I'm sick of all this. Every single day I'm having to tell you to stop being insensitive around clients and around me! A child can understand this Sherlock so I can't see any excuse as to why you can't. None at all." John turned around and grabbed his coat.

"Where are you going now?" Sherlock said irritatedly.

"Harry's." John shouted back from down the stairs.

Sherlock paused for a moment "But she lives in Slough?"

"Exactly!" John shouted before slamming the door.

Sherlock jumped from out of his chair and quickly made his way to the window. He watched John stomp down to the end of the street before jumping in a taxi and driving away. Sherlock was confused, worried and angry all at the same time and he didn't like it. He went to the sofa and slumped down on it and tried to figure out how long he would be staying at Harry's for.

"Yoo-hoo," Mrs. Hudson knocked quietly on the door into Sherlock's living room.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked angrily.

"I just came to ask what's gone off between you and John." She stepped into the flat and watched as Sherlock sat up and sighed.

"John started talking about something-I don't remember what I wasn't listening-then the conversation turned into something of an argument about me not caring about anything and now he's on his way to Harry's." Sherlock explained.

"Oh, will he be staying long?"

"How the hell am I supposed to know?" Sherlock snapped at her.

"Deary me, Sherlock. I'll leave you alone then." She said as she left the flat and made her way back down stairs.

Sherlock looked up at John's chair thought about the possibility of him not returning to Baker Street and finding somewhere else to stay and it made his chest tighten. He shook the thought out of his mind and returned to his microscope to try and take his mind off of it. It didn't work.

* * *

><p>Meanwhile John was currently on a train making his way to Harry's flat. Her flat was only small but, as far as he was aware, she had a spare room for him to stay in. If not, there was always a sofa.<p>

He rested his head on his hand and looked out of the window. It was dark outside and it'd started raining so there wasn't much to look at but that didn't matter, he was too busy thinking.

He wanted to go back to Baker Street and apologise for being a twat but he wasn't in the wrong. He wasn't the one who didn't give a shit about anyone. He wasn't the one who always got their way. No. He was always the one who apologised for everything. Every argument they had he would apologise for. But not this one. He was going to wait and see how long it would take for Sherlock to phone him and apologise. He could be stubborn when he wanted to be. He didn't mind waiting.

* * *

><p>"John?" Harry opened the door and stared at her younger brother in confusion. She was dressed in her pyjamas and had her dressing gown wrapped around her. It was obvious that John had just woke her up.<p>

John cleared his throat, "Hi. Urm...sorry but is it okay if I stay with you for a while? It's just, I haven't got anywhere to go and-"

"No, no it's fine. Come in, come in." Harry opened the door fully and gestured for John to go inside.

Her flat was just like he remembered. Small but modern. There wasn't much clutter (no where near as much as he was used to) and it was all rather clean. The last time he'd been there was when Harry was jut coming off the drink about a year ago. She was fully clean now and starting to get her life back together.

"So, what's happened between you and that friend of your's?"

"Who Sherlock?"

"Yeah, him. What's happened? Why aren't you staying there anymore?" Harry looked genuinely concerned even though her tone didn't suggest it.

"Oh, he's a dick so I thought it would be best if I stayed here for a while. Get some space, y'know?" John said as he sat down on the sofa.

"I see." Harry paused, "well, you've done the right thing. And you're welcome to stay here as long as you need to."

"Thank you." John smiled.

"Right I'm going to go back to bed. The spare rooms the last door on the left and the bathrooms right next door." She pointed down the hallway, before smiling and leaving the room. "Goodnight, John."

"Night, Harry."

John sat and stared into space for a while before standing up and making his way to the spare room to try and get some sleep.

* * *

><p>The next day, Sherlock rolled out of bed and dragged himself into the kitchen to make himself some tea. He'd had a terrible nights sleep and he greatly regretted even trying to sleep in the first place.<p>

He just sat down in his chair before there was a knock at the door. It was Mrs. Hudson. "Sherlock, your brothers here to see you." She said poking her head around the door.

Sherlock groaned as Mycroft came through the door. "Nice to see you too." He said as he went and sat in John's chair opposite Sherlock.

"What do you want?" Sherlock scowled at him.

"Bad nights sleep I see." Mycroft deduced, "nightmares I suspect."

"I said, what do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock was beginning to get very annoyed.

"Two of my men noticed John Watson catch a train to Slough last night at about 11:43pm and I just came to see if you'd successfully managed to scare off another 'friend'" Mycroft smiled. He could tell from Sherlock's state and John's absence that he was right but he still wanted to check.

"I haven't scared him off." Sherlock began to feel very defensive.

"Then what have you done?"

"Nothing. He just got mad and left. He couldn't handle me not caring about anyone." Sherlock looked away from Mycroft.

"Don't act so surprised, Sherlock. We all knew it was coming. You weren't human enough for him." Mycroft's words stung Sherlock's ears. His face crumpled slightly before returning to normal and looking down at the floor beneath Mycroft's feet.

They sat in silence for a while before Mycroft stood up. "Well, I better be off. No doubt there'll be some crime scene for you to go and contaminate so I don't want to keep you busy." He began to walk out go the room "Until next time, brother mine."

After he'd gone, Sherlock leaned back in his chair and rested his head on the back of it and closed his eyes. He didn't quite know how he felt, but he wanted it to go away. He wanted John to come back.

Just then, his phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a text from Lestrade.

"I need you at Scotland Yard now. Please."

Sherlock finished his tea and slowly began to make his way to the coat peg. He took his coat and scarf off their hooks and put them on. His eyes instantly focused on the empty peg where John's coat used to hang. He blinked his eyes tightly and quickly before slowly walking down the stairs.

"I'm going out on a case Mrs. Hudson. I don't know when I'll be back." He shouted. There was a muffled reply from the kitchen. He didn't care enough to go in and ask what she said so he just carried on walking out of the door.

* * *

><p>John woke up at around midday. He'd not had the best nights sleep but with no reason to wake up, he still managed to get enough to function okay. He went into the empty living room and wondered where Harry was. He made his way into the kitchen and found a note on the worktop.<p>

"I've gone out for a meal with some friends. I don't know when I'll be back. Make yourself at home.  
>- Harry x"<p>

John smiled at the note before putting the kettle on and beginning his search for the mugs in Harry's kitchen. When he found the mug cupboard he automatically grabbed hold of two mugs before stopping and realising what he was doing. He drifted off into a daydream about Sherlock never apologising and them never seeing each other again. His gut twisted and his chest ached before he snapped himself out of it and put one of the mugs down.

He finished making himself a cup of tea and went and sat down in the living room. He had no idea what Sherlock was doing right now but after living with him for 2 years, he finally understood why Sherlock got bored so easily.

He thought about how he'd not even been away from Sherlock for a full day yet but he missed him like hell. Was this normal? John had never had many friends, none as close as he felt with Sherlock anyway. He'd never actually missed any of the friends he did have but yet here he was, sat alone in his sisters flat missing the hell out of Sherlock Holmes even though they'd not even been apart for one day. He put it down to the uncertainty that they may never apologise to each other and just stay angry at each other for the rest of their lives. But the thought of that hurt even more.

* * *

><p>Sherlock arrived at Scotland Yard an hour after Lestrade messages him.<p>

"You took your time." Lestrade said as Sherlock walked into his office, "where's John?"

"Gone. Now, what do you have for me?" Sherlock tried to avoid the subject of John as much as he could, but Lestrade wasn't happy with his response.

"What do you mean he's gone?" He questioned.

"He's not living with me anymore. He's living with his sister in Slough."

"Shame, you two made a lovely couple." Lestrade joked in an attempt to cheer sherlock up. It didn't work. Sherlock didn't reply he just grumbled angrily to himself for a while before repeating his earlier question.

"Why am I here, Lestrade? What do you need me for?"

"A woman, Tracy her name was, rung up this morning to report the murder of her husband, Jim. She said they were making breakfast then a man in a black track suit broke in and stabbed her husband for no reason. I just thought I'd call you in to make sure she was telling the truth y'know? Something just seemed a bit off with everything." Lestrade explained.

"Alright. Where is it?" Sherlock asked pulling out his phone.

"Where's what?"

"The crime scene? Where is it?"

"Battersea. I can take you."

Sherlock was about to say that he'd get a cab and follow him but he couldn't see the point without John being there so he just nodded and followed Lestrade out of his office and into his car.

On the way to the crime scene, Lestrade started telling Sherlock about him and his wife. Sherlock presumed it had something to do with him and John so he stopped listening to avoid any awkward emotional outbursts.

The house was small but looked well looked after. The woman was sat in one of the police cars outside talking to a female police officer. Lestrade led Sherlock inside to the kitchen where the murder was committed.

"Why've you fetched him?" Anderson snarled as Sherlock walked into the room. "We've not even had this case 4 hours and you've already brought him in. You're getting too dependant le-"

"Oh shut up, Anderson. We all know this case will be solved quicker if I'm here." Sherlock interrupted as he stepped closer to the body laid on the floor.

The single, deep stab wound was in his stomach which meant he was facing the attacker when they stabbed him. From the position that the body was laid in it was obvious that he'd died from blood loss, not the wound itself. Sherlock pulled out his magnifying glass and knelt down next to the dried pool of blood on the floor. Lestrade and Anderson watched as he screwed his eyebrows confused lay at the edge of the pool.

"So, where's your little lap dog?" Anderson interrupted Sherlock's train of thought.

Sherlock ignored his question and stood up to make his way to the broken window. "What did you say the attacker broke the window with?" He asked staring at the glass shards which covered the windowsill.

"Erm...she didn't say. I can go ask if you-"

"No need for that, John."

"Greg." Lestrade gave sherlock an unamused scowl.

Sherlock looked at him and tried to think why he'd just said "Greg" then he realised that he'd just called him John and his gut tensed.

"Yes...er...Greg." He smiled tying to hide the real reason for his mistake.

Sherlock went back to examine the window before turning back to the body. "Have you determined what type of knife it was yet?" He asked Anderson.

"Some sort of kitchen knife. Not an illegal one anyway." He replied.

Sherlock didn't say anything. He just went over to the kitchen drawers and opened them until he found the utensil drawer. He pulled out all the knives with the same handle. He looked at the sharp side of every knife with his magnifying glass and smiled.

"Bin?" He asked.

"Pardon?" Lestrade replied in confusion.

"The bin? Where's their bin?"

"Over there?" Lestrade pointed to the corner of the room at the bin and Sherlock went rushing over.

He began emptying the rubbish from the bin by throwing it across the room.

"Woah no you can't do that!" Anderson shouted.

Sherlock payed no notice to him as he continued rummaging to the bottom. "Aha!" He shouted.

"Found something?" Lestrade questioned as he began walking over to Sherlock.

Sherlock pulled a cardboard box out from the bottom of the bin and placed it on the counter in front of Anderson and Lestrade.

"What's this about, Sherlock?" Lestrade questioned him.

Sherlock didn't say anything he just turned the box over, exposing the writing on the packaging. The box read "12 Kitchen Knife Set".

"So? They bought some new knifes? What's that got to do with anything?" Anderson asked.

"12 knives" Sherlock began, "there was 12 knives in this box when they bought it and there's only 11 in the drawer. None of those 11 knives had been used yet which shows that they were only bought recently and I really doubt that they would've lost or broken one of their new knives already which means..."

"Oh my god." Lestrade thought out loud.

Sherlock opened the box and lifted it up letting the blooded knife fall on to the worktop with a clatter. Anderson stared in amazement at the knife on the work top and Lestrade couldn't stop smiling and shaking his head in amazement at Sherlock. "Case solved." Sherlock said as he put the box down next to the knife.

"Well, not really." Lestrade said stepping closer.

"Why not?" Sherlock sounded offended.

"We still need a motive."

Sherlock sighed, "did you even look at her? Go outside and accuse her of the murder with the evidence I've given you and she'll confess everything."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Now can you take me home, Lestrade?"

"Well no. I've got to go make the arrest and-"

"Oh can't somebody else do it?" Sherlock whined like a child.

"No. Just get a cab like you always do."

Sherlock huffed before stomping out of the house onto the street to go and get a taxi.

On the way back to Baker Street his phone buzzed. It was a text from Lestrade.

"What's wrong with you today? I thought this case would be right up your street."

Sherlock scowled at his phone before replying. "There's nothing wrong with me."

"Is it John?"

"Shut up."

"Alright calm down. I was only checking on you. She did confess by the way so thank you"

"You're welcome."

Sherlock could feel himself getting frustrated, although he wasn't fully sure why. He paid the taxi driver and walked into 221B with his head hung low.

"Oh Sherlock, did you get the milk like I asked?" Mrs. Hudson asked as he walked in.

"No. Have you heard anything from John?" He asked hopefully same made his way up the stairs.

"No I haven't, love." She smiled back sympathetically.

Sherlock groaned again before finishing making his way up the stairs to his flat and laying back down on the sofa.

* * *

><p>John spent the next few days following the routine of; wake up at midday, make himself a cup of tea, sit on the sofa and watch tv until he falls asleep ready to start the routine all over again.<p>

On the 5th day he was starting to really panic about Sherlock not apologising. He could be stubborn but no where near as much as Sherlock was. The possibility of him not apologising was more likely than John wanted it to be. But the longer John left it, the harder it was becoming for him to apologise.

"Has he said anything yet?" Harry asked as she watched John stare at his phone.

"No. Not yet." John sighed. "I'm not even sure he will."

"John it's not even been a week yet. Give him time, he'll realise how much he needs you eventually." Harry tried to be optimistic but she was never very good at that.

* * *

><p>Over the next month, Sherlock was starting to realise now much he needed John. He'd stopped helping Lestrade with cases and he'd started smoking again (much to Mrs. Hudson's despair. She didn't enjoy the room upstairs to her stinking like smoke but Sherlock wasn't going to stop for the sake of her furniture). He spent most of his days sitting in his chair next to his phone waiting for John to ring. He never did.<p>

"Sherlock, can you not go smoke near the window?" Mrs. Hudson moaned as she walking into his flat with his tea to see him sat in his chair smoking.

"No." He replied in a deep voice.

She placed the tea down on the table between Sherlock and John's chair. Sherlock said nothing. "Some manners would be nice." Mrs. Hudson grumbled as she left room. Sherlock remained silent.

* * *

><p>As time went on, John found it easier to carry on without Sherlock. If Sherlock didn't care about him enough to pick up the phone and apologise then why should he care so much?<p>

The thought of him still hurt him for a moment or two before he shook the thought out of his mind and carried on with whatever he was doing.

Following Harry's advice, he got himself a job. He was a doctor at the local practice. He worked Mondays to Fridays which was enough to keep him busy.

Even though he was getting better, he still desperately wanted To return to Sherlock. He often found himself wishing that he hadn't left in the first place. But it was a little late for that now.

* * *

><p>As John found it easier to live without Sherlock as time went by, Sherlock found it became increasingly harder to live without John.<p>

He'd started doing drugs again. Not much at first, just the odd spliff here and there. But as time went on and the harder things became, the more he started doing morphine and cocaine again. He was careful about going and buying the drugs to begin with, incase Lestrade or Mycroft found out. But now he was careless. A part of him wanted to get caught by Lestrade (not so much by Mycroft). He knew that he had a problem and he wanted help but he wasn't ready to ask for it.

The only thing he was careful about now was keeping his stash of drugs hidden from Mrs. Hudson. He didn't want her to find them because she would phone Mycroft straight away. And that was the last thing that he needed.

On one particular Sunday afternoon, Sherlock was laid in his room injecting the last of his cocaine into his arm. He'd calculated that the dosage would be enough to knock him out for a while. He couldn't bare to be awake for too long anymore. Everything just hurt too much. He closed his eyes and felt the drug begin to work. Then all at once everything seemed to stop, like a car traveling at a high speed hitting a brick wall. Everything ground to a halt.

A few hours later, Sherlock started to wake up again. He opened his eyes to see Mycroft stood leant against the wall at the end of his bed.

"Wakey wakey, little brother." He smiled, "good to see you've not overdosed too much this time."

Sherlock was still slightly high from before. He tried to focus his brain but it had automatically reverted back to its primal, emotional reactions to everything.

"Why are you here?!" He shouted at Mycroft as he tried to stand up. Instead he just fell to his knees.

"The landlady found you and rung me." He said as he walked over to Sherlock to try and pick him up.

Sherlock groaned loudly and started thrashing his arms about like a child in an attempt to get Mycroft off of him. It didn't work and Mycroft successfully managed to lift him back to he was sat on his bed.

"Sherlock I warned you about what would happen to you if you started using again." Mycroft scowled at his younger brother. Sherlock had lost lots of weight and strength since he'd started using again. His skin was pale and his arms were covered in marks where he'd been injecting. As he slouched over and ran his boney hands through his tangled, messy hair, his spine was clearly visible through his shirt. "I suggest you start packing, brother dear. The car will be here to pick you up in 2 hours. And it's going to be a long stay."

"Long stay? What's happening? Where am I going?" Sherlock looked up at his brother. His eyes were sunken into his skull. Large, dark bags hung down from them. Mycroft found it hard to look at, so he looked down at his shoes.

"Rehab, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes widened and his face flushed with rage. "No!" He screamed. Before banging his head into his arms.

"I warned you before, Sherlock. You should've thought about that before you reawakened your drug habit." Mycroft took a few steps back from Sherlock in fear of getting hit by one of his limbs as he thrashed them about.

Sherlock had broken down. He was a mess. Crying and shouting words which were too slurred to make out. He'd fallen back off the bed and was laid on the floor trying to control his brain functions. Mycroft had seen his brother like this before. He knew that Sherlock was still in side this pitiful, crying mess. He knew that he was trying to calm down and act like an adult in this situation but the drugs and the depression were stopping him.

"As I said before, the car will be here in 2 hours. You have until then to pack. If you haven't, then we'll just take you as you are." Mycroft began to walk out of the door, "oh and I've phoned your good friends down at Scotland Yard." He said as he paused at the door, "they'll be here in about half an our to search your flat for more drugs. Don't worry, I've made sure you won't get arrested for this. Hopefully you've learnt your lesson enough."

Sherlock said nothing, he just laid curled up on the floor shaking. Rehab and therapy wouldn't help him. He knew this and Mycroft knew this. But this was no longer about help. It was about punishment. Sherlock had 2 hours and a drugged up brain left to try and think of a way to not go to rehab but still get help.

He racked his brain for answers, solutions, plans, anything. Anything that would help him. Nothing came to mind. Just panic, fear and sadness.

He laid on the floor sobbing for about 5 minutes before an idea came into his head. His judgement was too clouded for him to decide against it so he gathered up the remaining strength that he had left to lift himself to his feet and stagger into the bathroom.

He leaned against the sink and looked at himself in the mirror for a moment before coming to a full conclusion that this was the best way forward. He grabbed his razor from off the side of the sink and snapped the head off it. The small blades fell to the floor beneath his feet. He knelt down to get them but lost his balance and fell on his side. He rolled about and grabbed the blades in his hand.

He placed the sharp edge of one of them to his wrist and pressed down gently. He paused for a moment and tried to think of an alternative. He never was a fan of pain but with no other solution coming to mind, he closed his eyes tightly, pressed the blade down harder and sliced across his wrist. He let out a quiet cry in pain when the blade left his skin.

He opened his tearful eyes to see a steady stream of blood pouring from his wrist. One cut wouldn't be enough to kill him. His blood would begin to clot soon. So he did the same again underneath the first cut but this time, deeper. This cut didn't seem to hurt as much at first. But the longer he left it, the more the pain came. He looked at the amount of blood pouring from his wrist from the deep cut. Then he noticed the first cut was starting to clot and knit together. Angry at himself for healing, he made another, deeper cut. Then another one. And another one.

Sherlock couldn't remember whether this was just a cry for help or a serious attempt at his own life anymore. At 9 deep cuts and many smaller slices to his wrist, Sherlock's vision started fading. His blood covered most of the floor around him and he knew that he would pass out soon.

Just then he heard the door open. "John." He coughed.

Lestrade rushed down to his side and grabbed Sherlock's wrists. "Fucking hell Sherlock!" He shouted. "Donovan get the emergency services now!"

Sally Donovan poked her head round the door to see the scene laid out in front of her. A skinny, dying Sherlock curled up in a ball. Only one of his arms was viable, it was laid open on the floor next to him. Its finger tips were covered in blood and a razor blade laid not too far away from it. His upper half laid in a pool of blood which had been smudged round by both himself and Lestrade. Lestrade had wrapped a towel around Sherlock's bleeding arm and was telling him to stay with him and that he'd make it. Sally panicked at first before pulling out her phone and calling for the ambulance as quickly as possible.

A small crowd had appeared around the bathroom door. Anderson stood at the front of the crowd of gasping police officers with his hand over his mouth and tears filling his eyes.

"What's all the shouting about?" Mrs. Hudson's voice could be heard above all the gasps, "what's going on in the bathroom?"

"Get her out of here!" Lestrade shouted, "don't let her see him." Some of the police officers left the crowd and took Mrs. Hudson downstairs, despite her reluctance.

Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at Lestrade, "John." He coughed.

"John's not here Sherlock." Greg replied.

"I...I need...John. I need John." Sherlock was struggling to talk and stay conscious but he needed to see John again. He needed Lestrade to get him.

"John isn't here. Other doctors are coming to help." Lestrade was trying his hardest to keep calm and keep Sherlock awake.

"Get. John." Sherlock coughed before his eyes closed and he let out a groan. His head fell to the floor and his body went limp. He was still alive but he was dying.

The ambulance team arrived and quickly got to work getting Sherlock's body down the stairs and into the ambulance.  
>"Donovan go with them." Lestrade ordered as he ran towards his police car.<p>

"Why aren't you?" She asked as she started to get into the ambulance.

"Because I need to get John and you need to tell me where Sherlock is when we get to hospital." Lestrade replied as he got into his car, put the sirens on and sped away.

The good thing about a police car is you can overtake traffic and get to where you need to be quickly. This was Lestrade's biggest advantage at the moment. He rung John as soon as he reached Slough;

"Greg?" John said when he answered the phone. It'd been almost a year since John had spoken to him.

"John where are you right now?" Greg shouted at him, he didn't have any time to lose.

"Erm, Harry's flat. Why?" John sounded concerned.

"Address. John. I need the address."

"It's on Farnham road-"

"Right stand outside I'll pick you up."

"Pick me up wait-" Greg hung up the phone and sped towards Farnham Road.

John jumped up from his seat and went to get his coat.

"Who was it, John?" Harry asked.

"It was Greg. I don't know what he wants but it sounds important, I've got to go." John grabbed his coat and quickly slipped his feet in his shoes and ran down the stairs.

He was stood on the street for about 2 minutes before he heard the sound of the police siren coming down the road. It stopped right in front of him and the passenger seat window was wound down.

"Get in now!" Greg shouted at John. John obeyed.

When he was in the car and the door was shut Greg set off again back up the road to get back to London. When John had finished fiddling with his seatbelt he finally asked him what was going on.

"What's all this about?" He was very concerned and fearing the worst.

"It's Sherlock." Greg replied. John's heart stopped and missed a few beats before kick starting back into action and beating twice as fast as it was before, "look, I don't know what went off between you two earlier this year and frankly I don't care right now. But Sherlock's in hospital because of it and the only thing he said to me was he needed you."

John had so many questions that needed answering and he tried to ask them all at once, "w-what-why is he in hospital?"

"He tried to bloody kill himself." Greg's eyes never left the road, they were traveling at too higher speed to be careless.

"Wha-how?" John could feel a lump start to grow in his throat.

Greg sighed, he tried to think of a more delicate way to put it. But there wasn't one, "He cut his wrists. He was bleeding out. I found him on the bathroom floor. I'm glad you didn't see to be honest."

John didn't say anything for a while. He just sat and stared. He pictured sherlock a lifeless body laid in a pool of blood on the bathroom floor.

"So, he's gonna make it right?" John asked.

"...I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?" John was beginning to shout.

"Because I left to get you as soon as the ambulance crew arrived. I haven't heard anything since." Lestrade raised his voice back at John.

John fell silent and didn't say anything for the rest of the journey.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was rushed into A&amp;E as soon as he arrived at hospital. The doctors quickly got to work stitching up his wrist and transfusing blood back into him. They had to be quick or they'd lose him. He was hanging on by a thread. The ambulance team didn't know how he'd stayed alive this long on so little blood anyway.<p>

* * *

><p>When Lestrade and John arrived at the hospital they both jumped straight out of the car and ran inside. They ran straight up to Donovan who was waiting by the main desk.<p>

"Room 307" she said to them. Lestrade stopped next to her but John went sprinting down the corridor.

"Did he make it?" Lestrade asked Sally.

John went running down corridors and up stairs and through doors trying to find room 307 where Sherlock was. The closest thing he'd felt to this before was the night when Sherlock went with the serial killer taxi driver on their first night as flat mates. But this was so much worse.

When John finally arrived at room 307, he was greeted by a doctor who was standing outside the door.

"Hello who-" the doctor began.

"Is Sherlock Holmes in there?" John managed to say. He was out of breath and trying his hardest not to cry.

"Yes but-"

"I need to see him." John demanded.

"He's not awake." The doctor said.

"But is he alive?" John asked just as Lestrade and Donovan arrived from round the corner at the bottom of the corridor.

The doctor paused for what seemed like forever. "Yes, he is alive." The doctor replied.

"Oh thank god." John's body started to collapse and he stumbled back against the wall of the corridor. Lestrade and Donovan ran over to him to stop him from falling.

"But it's all still uncertain. We're monitoring his recovery very closely because of how much blood he lost. But, he did manage to stay alive after losing just over 2 litres of blood which is quite a lot." The doctor sounded hopeful for Sherlock's recovery.

"Yes I know, I'm a doctor" John said to the doctor to stop him from pointlessly explaining that point further.

The doctor smiled at John then looked through the door behind him at Sherlock before looking back at John and saying, "he must have something to fight for."

John was slightly taken back by the comment but then his gut was overcome with butterflies when the doctor stepped to one side and told him that he could go in and see him.

John smiled at the doctor before letting his body go into autopilot and walk into Sherlocks room.

Sherlock's eyes were closed and his pale, skinny body laid still in the bed. The only movement was the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. In the deathly silence of the room, his breathing almost echoed. He had many different wires and pipes running in and out of his skin. As John walked round to the side of the bed where the visitors chair was, he noticed Sherlock's cuts. The deep ones were stitched and the rest had butterfly stitches on them. There was a bandage roll on the bedside table. John suspected that they were going to bandage them later when he woke up, but he wasn't awake yet.

John sat in the chair and stared at Sherlock. Silently praying for him to wake up.

"I..erm, we're gonna go now. We've got some stuff to sort out." Lestrade broke the silence.

John looked up at him and smiled, "yeah...erm, okay. Thank you."

"No problem." He smiled back before him and Donovan left the room leaving Sherlock and John alone.

John tuned in to the sound of Sherlock breathing. In all the time they'd been alone in a room together, John had never actually listened to Sherlock's breathing before.

Just then, Sherlock's eyes began to twitch. John's heart stopped beating again. Sherlock slowly opened his eyes and stared up at the bright lights on the ceiling above his head. He was alive. But not only that, there was someone in the room with him. He sniffed the air and smiled. John quietly pulled the chair closer to his bed. Sherlock closed his eyes in pain as he slowly turned his head to face John.

He opened his eyes to see John's eyes staring right back into his. John watched as Sherlock's eyes lit up. They were full of hope. He looked like he was going to make a full recovery, physically anyway.

"John." He struggled through the word but after he said it, he couldn't stop smiling.

John's heart leapt when he heard Sherlock's voice again. He felt tears beginning to fill his eyes. "Hello, Sherlock." He smiled back. As he blinked a tear fell down his face and he wiped it away as quickly as it fell.

Sherlock laughed quietly to himself for a moment and waited for John to finish wiping his tears away. When he'd finished, Sherlock's smile faded.

"Look John I-"

"Sherlock I'm so sorry. If I'd not left, you wouldn't be here and it's all my fault I'm sorry Sherlock I -" John interrupted Sherlock only to be interrupted by him again.

"None of this was your fault John. It was all my own doing. I thought I didn't care about anyone apart from myself but I was wrong. My stubbornness to apologise got us here John. Not you." A tear began to fall down Sherlock's face.

John didn't know what to say back. There was so much he wanted to say but he didn't know how to say any of it. He watched as Sherlock's gaze fell down to his arm. His eyes squinted at it as he moved his fingers and tried to come to terms with what he'd done to himself.

"Why'd you do that to yourself, Sherlock?" John asked him.

Sherlock sucked his dry lips into his mouth for a moment while he thought of how to explain it. "I started using again." He began, his voice was shaking, "while you were away, I started using again and Mycroft found out and threatened me with rehab. I didn't want to go but I wanted help and...and I wanted to see you. I was still high when I thought of it so I wasn't thinking straight. But I guess that's no excuse." John remained silent as Sherlock looked back up at him. His eyes were red with tears, "Looking back on it now it was a really stupid idea. If I'd died I still wouldn't have seen you and I'm probably still going to have to go to rehab. Or at least therapy."

"Therapy isn't that bad. I'd suggest saying that you'll go to therapy not rehab." John said. Even though he didn't mention the fact that Sherlock attempted suicide because his drug fuelled brain thought it would be the only way to see him again, the thought never left his mind.

Sherlock smiled, "I'll take your word for it then."

They sat smiling at each other in silence for a while before John started speaking again. "Living without you was much more difficult than I thought it was going to be y'know."

"You handled it better than I did." Sherlock rolled his head to look back up at the ceiling.

John laughed quietly. "It was a strange sort of feeling. Like...no it doesn't matter."

"Tell me." Sherlock said in a deep voice.

John took a deep breath, "like a part of me was missing? I don't know."

Sherlock creased his eyebrows and turned to face John again, "8 months living with your sister and you've gone all soft of me, John Watson."

They stared at each other for a moment before bursting into fits of giggles.

"No but, do you not know what I mean?" John asked.

"I know exactly what you mean."

Sherlock stared into John's eyes and noticed how his pupils dilated the longer he looked at him. Sherlock smiled at John and John knew why.

"Those 8 months made me realise how much I actually want and need you, John." Sherlock said.

John's eyes widened in surprise that Sherlock had actually admitted that he wanted him as well as needed him. "Is that just the morphine talking or...?"

"It's you, John. You're the only person in this world that I care about more than I care about myself. Please, don't leave me again."

"Yep. Defiantly the morohine." John leant back in the chair and folded his arms.

Sherlock creased his eyebrows at John before stretching out his arm towards John. "No it's not." He out stretched his palm like he wanted John to take his hand.

John stared at it for a moment, his heart was racing as he tried to figure out whether Sherlock actually wanted him to take it or not. He looked up at Sherlock's, hopeful eyes and made his decision.

He unfolded his arms and leaned forward again. Slowly, he moved his hand towards Sherlock's and lowered it so their palms touched. Sherlocks fingers wrapped around John's hand. For a man who's just started recovering from a suicide attempt, he had a pretty strong grip. John looked back up at Sherlock's face. He was smiling wider than he was before. John tightened his grip around sherlock a hand and widened his smile to match Sherlock's.

He moved his chair a bit closer to the bed so Sherlock didn't have to stretch his arm out anymore.

"John Watson, I need you and I want you in my life. I don't know much about this and please correct me if I'm wrong but, doesn't that mean that I love you?" Sherlock said.

John swallowed and stared at Sherlock's face. He couldn't tell what he was thinking. Whether he wanted to be in love with John or not. Whether he wanted John to be in love with him or not. John had no idea, so he decided to be truthful with him.

"Yes." He replied with a smile, "I think it does. And you know what? I feel the same way."


End file.
